A Surfer You Could Trust. Some Breasts and Ants. A Slight Review of Success Show 5
i was hanging my boobs down in the backyard, long and thin, and thinking about the boobs of the american first lady. i thought about them - the first lady boobs - because i'd seen them on the internet. not the whole boobs, but enough to get a feeling for them. i was in my gardening outfit: skirt, undies, hat and sandals, and one 925, made in italy, 92.5% silver chain that fell off some man's neck onto the street and was now hanging down from my neck with a jade pendant from my great aunty, in the shape of a heart on it.
a jade heart hanging down from my real heart. real boobs hanging down, with the idea of 80% real boobs, newly political boobs, somewhere far away, in my mind.
well, as i walked along the street today i thought about whether it matters if people just have fake flowers or real ones. you could just buy one set of fake plants and flowers for your baby when it's born and then those stay with it for its whole life. one plastic coffee cup to use over and over, one toothbrush with indestructible plastic bristles, as the baby will already only have one set of eyes to last its life time.
(the thought of an eye! incredible! the thought of ants farming aphids, which they do, stroking their backs to suck out the honey dew, and keeping all those lady birds far far away, incredible!)
well, the other night there was an exhibition down down the exhibitions are down in the success gallery, underneath the myer building which is no longer myer. it's the last success show. everyone down there was crying tears of astro turf and all the turf tears landed as a series of mini-golf games. you could hire a putter but the queue was too long. once a tall american woman who's made a series of artworks about the death of the humanoid earthtime, via people humping dirt, inseminating flowers etc., handed me a putter and so i tried to be an artist by using the golf ball to putt the putter. my eyes (only ones i've had, given at birth, continuing likely til death) glanced up sideways at my bf to see if it impressed him. "i'm being an artist!" i said.
we often see the curator lyndon on the street. he's always got nice hair, white teeth, a briefcase, and the respect of every person he comes into contact with. maybe he's born with it?
so also at the show there were two guys about to play with a third man off to the side. they all had sets of electronics, and the two guys about to play music had a banner, lengthways from the microphone stand, with their name "bullet train for australia". the music men were sam and ben, classic names, but they didn't just play classic music. they were improvising the whole time, and this is what made it good. all electronic except a trombone, all beats based at the core, all repetitive but constantly moving, wah, like a train i guess. it was a conceptual performance and it was a great performance.
a man off to the side looked like a surfer you could trust. not just to look after your laptop while you go to the cafe toilets, but for example to transform your whole house to solar power maybe, or in this case to make an incredible visual eyescape, constantly moving to go with the sounds. i walked up close to him during the show and there it was all laid out in front, like tim from basic mind's analogue synth set-up. all home made modules, small audio sensing shards of silver wood or plastic inside a tiny bed of water, moving with the music, tiny lasers going amongst them, a tiny smoke machine blowing over this toy train sized videographic wonderland.
because oh yes, there was a toy train set too, set on top of an indigenous map of australia, all the countries and people groups coloured in by someone, finally, to show a thing that gets ignored.
my boobs hang down, projections happen through water and smoke, a little train keeps on going and going, ants farm aphids and stroke their backs for a specific purpose. hmm.